


Let them talk

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Geralt isn't good with feelings, Geralt just wants to bathe in peace, Jaskier attempts at being a BAMF, Jaskier is a champion for Geralt's honor, M/M, Mentions of Racism, Racist Priests, Slice of Life, Useless Talking, a little bit of angst i guess?, philosophical thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22694281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: "There's a wandering hermit out there, you know? A preacher of some sorts, babbling about how the Eternal Flame will save our souls and bullshit like that…", he quietly says, spraying warm water on Geralt's shoulders and gently digging his fingers in the sore, knotted muscles, rubbing soothing circles until Geralt finally relaxes with a contented sigh."A preacher", he mutters. "I don't like preachers.""And, apparently, preachers don't like your kind. I left when I overheard him talking shit about witchers. I would have smashed my lute over his head, can you believe that? Yeah, I would have regretted it for the rest of my miserable life, but I would have sacrificed her for a worthy cause…"Geralt chuckles, placing a soft kiss on the Bard's yielding flesh."I'm no worthy cause, Jaskier, but thanks for the thought. May I suggest you to choose another weapon, next time? A barstool would do. Or a big stick. A rack, if you find one."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 196





	Let them talk

The public baths are silent and empty. Probably, everyone has left once the rumor that a witcher was approaching has spread throughout the finely frescoed halls. Geralt knows that many people think that witchers carry disease, like rats and fleas. That's better like this, though, not having to share a warm pool with anyone. It means that he can wash in a comfortable silence, without being forced to listen to endless conversations about politics, women and horserace betting -- not that he wants to; he just happens to have a very sharp ear, thanks to his mutations, so there's nothing he can do about unintentional eavesdropping. 

_Anyway._

He takes his time to undress. Slowly, one piece at a time. Spaulders first, then breastplate, gloves, shirt and boots. Finally, he gets rid of his trousers, that look so in need of being thoroughly scrubbed and washed, even mended here and there.

When it comes to let down his hair, Geralt winces with discomfort. The muscles in his shoulders and arms feel uncharacteristically sore -- actually, he doesn't remember a time when he has felt _this_ sore. The male wyvern whose head is currently being chemically - or magically, he doesn't care about these details - treated to be mounted over the alderman's wall had a very strong will to live, and the fight hasn't been the usual, easy _get in-kill the beast-get out._

Geralt sighs and steps inside the marble pool, hoping that the warm springwater will loosen up his muscles enough to allow him to ride comfortably in the morning. He's not so optimistic, though.

Credit where credit is due, the waters in this town are an absolute panacea, just like people love to say; they smell like sulphur and rotten egg, that's true, but the rosemary springs floating on the calm surface can mask it enough -- for humans, at least. Geralt's sense of smell is too enhanced to be tricked by a few herbs and braziers burning sticks of aromatic incense. He can't say that the weird mixture is unpleasant, though. It's just...weird. It tickles his nose in a rather pleasant way, which is much more than he hoped for when he paid the toll and he was given a washcloth and a half-consumed bar of soap to wash himself clean of days worth of dirt and wyvern blood.

Lulled by the quiet sound of the water, Geralt even manages to doze off for a while, until an unmistakable scent of flowers and cologne hits his nostrils, meaning that Jaskier has grown tired of performing for the small crowd of peasants that has gathered by the inn just to listen to the romanticized adventures of the old, mighty Witcher and his faithful bard. Smoke and mirror, for the most part. Yet, Jaskier's abilities as a storyteller make everything seem real. He turns the impossible to possible, fiction into reality just with his minute attention to the detail -- and his absolutely lovely voice, but that's something Geralt will never admit.

Eyes closed and breathing slow, the witcher pretends to be fast asleep. Jaskier may act like an absolute jester most of the time, but he's far from stupid: he susses out Geralt's farce right away and, naked as the day he was born, he sits behind Geralt by the smooth edge of the pool, allowing the witcher to inhale deeply his intoxicating scent while leaning his head on the soft flesh of his pale inner thigh.

"There's a wandering hermit out there, you know? A preacher of some sorts, babbling about how the Eternal Flame will save our souls and bullshit like that…", he quietly says, spraying warm water on Geralt's shoulders and gently digging his fingers in the sore, knotted muscles, rubbing soothing circles until Geralt finally relaxes with a contented sigh.

"A preacher", he mutters. "I don't like preachers."

"And, apparently, preachers don't like your kind. I left when I overheard him talking shit about witchers. I would have smashed my lute over his head, can you believe that? Yeah, I would have regretted it for the rest of my miserable life, but I would have sacrificed _her_ for a worthy cause…"

Geralt chuckles, placing a soft kiss on the Bard's yielding flesh. 

"I'm no worthy cause, Jaskier, but thanks for the thought. May I suggest you to choose another weapon, next time? A barstool would do. Or a big stick. A rack, if you find one."

"What about the good old fashioned fists, hm?"

"I'd strongly advise you against that. You could cause serious damage to your fingers, if you're not wearing brass knuckles or padded gloves. And even then it'd be... hazardous."

He can _hear_ Jaskier pout, assuming that pouting is something you can hear. He expects a dramatic remark of sorts - something like _Heaven forbid I ruin my lovely little fingers on a lousy, insignificant preacher!_ \- but he gets a resigned sigh instead.

Smell of soap. Another sigh. Jaskier is unusually quiet -- the harsh words of the preacher must have hit him very hard; after all this time, after all the terrible things people have said to him and to his guild - both in his face and behind his back, in case of particularly gutless peasants that were too afraid to openly express their hostility towards witchers in general - Geralt doesn’t care about the ramblings of a zealot who thinks that witchers are a product of Hell and the very evidence of its existence. Jaskier isn’t used to such passionate hatred, even though he has had a taste of it while singing the wrong songs in the wrong taverns. _Still._

“Lower your head, please, I’ll wash your hair. Dear Melitele, when was the last time you washed it? If you only used water, it doesn’t count”, the bard adds, after a pause. Geralt grins at that. 

“Then I don’t remember, I’m afraid.”

“That’s too bad. Let me take care of this mess and mark my words. You’ll end up bald, if you keep avoiding soap.”

The witcher scoffs fondly. _Jaskier, always at the forefront for a lost cause._

“Says who?”

“My mother. She used to terrorize me into bathing, when I was a kid.”

“Hmmm. Vesemir wasn’t that dedicated, back in Kaer Morhen. Priorities, I guess.”

Jaskier shrugs.

“Perhaps. You have me, now, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately, yes”, Geralt replies, leaving a trail of soft, chaste kisses from the bard’s thigh to his knee. There’s a purpling bruise there, and Geralt wonders how he got that. He’ll ask, eventually.

“Come on, bow your head. Let me do the magic.”

The moment Jaskier starts scraping dirt off his scalp, Geralt _really_ considers the idea of purring, reputation be damned. He doesn’t know how to, which is a blessing indeed, therefore he simply hums with content, enjoying the other man’s tough while it lasts.

It took him long, so long to grow accustomed to physical affection, to all those little things that were so different from the rough, comradely affection he had experienced growing up in Kaer Morhen, but now –

_Now Geralt isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to live without it._

A dangerous thought indeed, considering how the bard’s lifespan is supposed to be way shorter than his own.

“You’re brooding”, Jaskier says, scratching a particularly dirty spot just above his right ear with his nails. Geralt leans into the touch, allowing the bard to work his way to the top of his head. He hears him mutter a curse, probably directed to a stubborn knot, or a challenging stain. Caked blood, perhaps, or dried mud. “What was I saying? Ah, right, you’re brooding. Is that because of the preacher or just your usual brooding self? Because, you know, I can still beat the shit out of that prick if you want me to…”

He could genuinely laugh at Jaskier’s blind determination but, as much as his _people skills_ are a bit rusty, he knows he’d sound indelicate, totally disrespectful. So, instead of bursting out laughing like he’s never laughed before, he just places another sloppy kiss to the bard’s leg, eliciting a lovely chuckle that reverberates pleasantly through his ears and settles like warm honey in his chest.

_If only he was good with words._ He’s fairly eloquent, truth to be told, but when it comes to matters like feelings Geralt – he’s just unable to cope with them.

_No one has ever taught him how to._

“I’m not brooding. I’m…relaxing. And I don’t care about the preacher, Jaskier, he can say whatever shit he wishes to say. His words don’t move me at all.”

Jaskier lets out a sigh, focusing on detangling a particularly stubborn strand of white hair that the dim light of the braziers has turned into vivid, pure gold, shining as yellow and orange as the embers, as the burning incense sticks.

“How noble of you but...they move me. In a sort of twisted and destructive way, if I may say so.”

“I get it. You’re itching to help my honor, Jaskier, and for that I am truly grateful. It’s just that you don’t have to. I don’t need you to.”

The bard falls silent for a while. Geralt would gladly like to say something like _‘who’s brooding now?’,_ but he knows better when to hold back. Meanwhile, tireless fingers wash and rinse and comb through the intricate mass of his hair, turning a shapeless bush into a wavy cascade brushing past his shoulders.

He needs a haircut, or else he’ll soon start looking like a cheap version of an elven warrior – in times like these, it may be even worse than looking like a witcher, in terms of racial hate.

“But what if it’s me who needs it, Geralt?”, he says, swiftly slipping into the marble pool next to him.

The witcher hands him a clean washcloth and watches attentively as Jaskier bathes, unbothered by the odd mixture of smells lingering in the smoke-filled air.

“You done with my hair?”, he asks, and he gets a mere “uh-uh” in response.

“Jaskier”, he softly calls, helping him with a persistent stain on the back of his neck. When he finally gets to scrub it away, Jaskier turns to face him, and Geralt feels his stomach sink at the sight of his impossibly blue, impossibly beautiful eyes. He thinks he could drown in those tiny, condensed oceans, and the thought alone is enough to make his heart flutter in his chest.

“What if I really, really need to punch the bastard zealot in the mouth, Geralt?”

The witcher places a soft, gentle kiss on his mouth, tasting Sulphur on his lips. Sulphur and salt, rosemary, lavender, watery ale, anger, disdain.

_Geralt has never thought that the words ‘witcher’, ‘softness’ and ‘gentleness’ could coexist in the same sentence._

_Still._

“It won’t be of any help”, he whispers, brushing his own lips against the bard’s just slightly. “Not to my honor, not to your mood.”

“But the things he said…”

“The same things that most of the people say about witchers. Don’t let it rattle you. It’s a waste of energy and time, Jaskier.”

The bard presses his forehead against Geralt’s, quietly breathing through his mouth. An invisible force makes his lips quiver, but he doesn’t make a sound. The witcher doesn’t know how much time they spend like this, just enjoying the close proximity and kissing now and then – frankly, he doesn’t give a shit about time. Not when Jaskier is involved.

_Another one of the many things he should tell him before it’s too late, but he can’t bring himself to._

“You’re probably right”, the bard says after a while. “It won’t be of any help beating up the priest. And, now that I think about it, it would be ludicrous. An awkward sight would it be to witness a bard beating the crap out of a _holy man.”_

Sarcasm is blatant in the way Jaskier says ‘holy man’. Geralt grins at that.

“Good. Let’s go, now, before someone comes down here and demands we pay for our prolonged stay. I’d be very pissed if I wasted my money like that.”

Jaskier chuckles. To Geralt, there’s no sound in the world that can match it. It’s graceful and harmonic, just like his singing, just like everything else he does.

They get dry fast, and get dressed even faster. Jaskier seems to have something in mind and, hopefully, he has already tossed away his plans to restore Geralt’s honor by smashing his lute on the head of a priest.

Most of the times, Geralt doesn’t like what’s on Jaskier’s mind. Tonight, however, he’s going to indulge him whatever his plan may be, no matter how silly or weird.

He must thank him for being his knight in a shining armor someway, after all, since he’s not good with words.

_What a better thing to do, if not letting him do whatever it pleases him?_


End file.
